Friday, June 14, 2013

"Father's Day 1957"

Being fatherless on “Father’s Day” is like being at a
marshmallow roast without a stick.

It wasn’t good having no Dad.It saddened our mother.And left my brother and me, riding a plane
with a single parental wing.It was easy
to wobble off course.

“Father’s Day” was particularly
tough to navigate.It was the day the
world set aside to celebrate the familial arrangement I didn’t have.Though I understood, at least theoretically,
that there were other children without fathers, on “Father’s Day”, I felt…well,
imagine Christmas with a world full of Christians and one Jew.That’s pretty much how Christmas feels
anyway.But this was more personalized.This was the a holiday that, if renamed,
could legitimately be labeled,

“Not me.”

Can you imagine a card for that?

We know your Dad has
gone away

We understand you’re
brokenhearted

We’re sending this to
you today

So at least you won’t
be non-gift carded.

Happy “No Father’s Day.”

Is this too sad?I
have a tendency to overshoot.

In truth, though uncomfortable, the situation was more
disorienting than devastating.The fact
is, I had a loving mother and a protective brother.And, though I cannot – nor can I ever – explain
why,

I had some friends.

One of them was Toronto
Hebrew Day School classmate, Arny Wise.

But first, an expositional digression.

Before the Major League Blue
Jays came to town (in 1977), Toronto was the home of the minor league
Triple-A Toronto (baseball) Maple Leafs, not to be confused with the
exalted and in no way affiliated Toronto
(hockey) Maple Leafs.I don’t know why the hockey team allowed the
baseball team to have the same name.Maybe because it was the off-season, and they weren’t using for it.

“But we want it back in the fall.”

Like with all baseball teams, to crank up attendance, the
organization scheduled certain “giveaway” events, when, for the price of
admission, baseball fans also took home an autographed towel, or a team-logoed
seat cushion.

On “Father’s Day”, the first three thousand kids aged 12 or
under who arrived at ballpark accompanied by their fathers, would receive an
actual-sized, varnished, wooden, exactly like the players used in games,
Official Triple-A authorized and signed with a flourish by the Commissioner
whoever he happened to be at the time…

Baseball bat.

I was twelve years old – my last year of eligibility.And without a Dad.

But I still wanted a bat.

Arny Wise was determined I would get one.

Arny lived two blocks away from me.I had slept over at his house.He has slept over at mine, where, for our
dinner, his mother traditionally made us – spoken in an accent I could never
identify – boiled…

“Ha’ Digs.”

Arny was my age.He
had two brothers, an older one, Sydney, and a younger one, Marty.

On “Father’s Day” 1957, at Arny’s insistence, his father
dutifully drove down to the southern tip of Bathurst Street to venerable Maple Leaf Stadium, in the company of
his four sons –

Sydney, Arny, Marty,

And me.

For that day, I was a member of the Wise Family.When we passed through the turnstiles, the
three of us would receive bats.(Older
brother Sydney was above the “cut-off.”)

Would they put you in jail for sneaking into at a ballgame
“Under an assumed father”?Probably
not.But I was a sensitive child.And to a boy of a delicate temperament, a public
“outing” and banishment as a “counterfeit son” held no less dread than
incarceration.

My stomach was already churning, as Arny’s father parked the
car and we got out and headed for the ticket window.Four seats were purchased, and we proceeded
towards the entrance.As the “Moment of
Truth” drew ever closer, I began harboring second thoughts.I volunteered to skip the double-header, and wait
in the car.

“You are coming with us,” Arny instructed, firmly, but with
a quiet sensitivity.

The line was understandably long.They were giving away bats!As we snailed our way forward, I started
studying my “brothers”, wondering how I could miraculously morph myself into a
believable possibility.The Wises were
swarthy, almost Arabian-looking.My
genetic recipe screamed Minsk and Pinsk.

Though Arny was somewhat younger than me, he was already
shaving.How could we be the same age
and on opposite sides of the “Puberty Line”?How could we be the same age and not be twins?I mean, even fraternal twins looks somewhat
alike, don’t they?Here, there was absolutely
no similarity.I looked like someone
they’d kidnapped!

I was sweating through my t-shirt as we reached the front of
the line.

No questions were asked.There was barely an acknowledgement.As the “Wise Boys” entered the ballpark…